Competition

Beta: TessaBeth, mbaokea
Pairings: (in order of appearance) Aeneas/Paris, Hector/Paris
Warnings: Slash, dubious consent, Incest, consensual sexual violence, dark themes

Disclaimer: Troy, the Iliad, et al belong to others. Not mine and no money made.

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::Competition::


A sweet, throbbing ache suffuses Paris’ loins as he observes the liquid play of muscles beneath his eldest brother’s sun-darkened skin during the general’s training games with his men. Dust hangs thickly upon the disturbed air and coats Prince Hector in a fine layer through which glimmering trails of sweat draw wavering vertical lines. Exertion flushes the heir’s cheeks, husks his resonating voice and brings shards of lightning-flash to his dark eyes. In a near swoon of excited want Paris molds himself against the cool stone pillar that conceals his spying eyes. Breathing elevated, he cannot help but shift his hips against the hard, smooth column—one of the many ringing the exercise courtyard--as his brother defeats another of his peers. With a low moan he wraps his slender arms as far around its girth as they will go and abandons himself to the exquisite urge singing through his body.

If Hector catches him, harsh words will force him into retreat to nurse his bruised dignity—though it might be worth it simply to come under the attention of the man when war-fever rides him hard. This arena is not for one such as Paris and Hector seems to be firmly of a mind that his little brother’s presence will be a great distraction to his soldiers. Perhaps this is true; after all, when Paris attempts to practice with them several men always find the need to personally correct his stance or his grip upon spear shaft or sword hilt. Hard bodies pressing firmly against his back, large hands holding his own, they always feel as though they must take him through each movement several dozen times before allowing him to try on his own. This arouses Hector’s ire as nothing else can, or so it appears to Paris.

All attempts at weapons-work are now under the private tutelage of his eldest brother; though, the noble general is no better than his men at not manhandling the slender prince during such sessions.

Long arms trap Paris firmly against the pillar and a pair of soft lips rest just upon the outer curve of his right ear. A moment later the scent of leather and metal fills his senses as the embrace forces him closer to the pillar, if such a thing can even be conceived of…

“What warrants such a wanton display?” a honey smooth voice inquires in an intimate whisper against the shell of Paris’ ear. The young prince goes rigid under the unwanted press of another body against his, a body that is not his brother’s.

“Cousin,” he grates out in acknowledgement of prince Aeneas’ loathsome intrusion. He holds nothing but contempt for this brother-by-marriage, this haughty leader of the Dardanians, for, as soon as the man arrived at court to treat with Priam, he initiated a campaign of bold molestation upon Paris—much to the young prince’s consternation.

“My princeling.”

“Is there something you require, my lord?”

“I would know what captivates your interest so. Where do your limpid eyes wander to? To all those hard bodies sweating under Apollo’s gaze? Or to one in particular?” Sharp teeth bite Paris’ earlobe and draw a small hiss of pain. “I saw you last night, little princeling. I watched you attempt to seduce Prince Hector, your very own brother. He spurned you, but you almost had him, didn’t you? He is stronger than I have ever given him credit for.”

“You know nothing of this matter,” Paris whispers in a panic-edged voice. “You have obviously been dreaming from too much wine.”

The Dardanian grinds his hips against the youth’s pert backside and there is no chance of Paris missing the hard length of flesh shifting against and pressing into his cleft behind the hindrance of their fine wool khitons. His body a temple of betraying lusts, the young prince moans softly and cannot resist the impulse to hump back against his assailant and then into the slowly warming column against his front. Desire fills his belly with heat and thrusts it deeply into his leaking member already raised in ardor at the sight of his embattled brother. Even as one of Aeneas’ hands slides from the pillar to caress his waist, his wide eyes never leave the delicious movements of his brother’s powerful body.

“I would have had you screaming for mercy upon my cock the moment you touched me in the baths.” Cool air brushes against Paris’ buttocks as the man shifts away for the second it takes to lift the hem of their khitons. Uneven breaths dampen the pillar before Paris and he shudders in unwilling delight. How he wishes his brother would do that, would finally give in and take what Paris is more than willing to offer—has offered.

“Split in two. Mewling for more, harder—deeper. I would never refuse your sweet little body. Your body, your mouth… your ass…”

The youth does not want this from this man. He wants, wants, wants, wants, but from another.

Panic flutters through Paris as the man’s thick, arousal-slicked cock nudges against his backside. His body shrieks—writhes—for another’s conquering thrust, but his mind knows the pain dry penetration brings. The wet cockhead nudges lightly at the youth’s clenched port and Aeneas moans softly, holding the young prince’s nether cheeks spread with one hand.

“No!” Paris tries to wriggle away even though there is nowhere he can escape to when pressed so firmly against the column. Hot pulses of arousal bind him as surely as Aeneas’s hands. He cannot trust his legs to bear him away.

Wants and needs, so long… Hector.

“Hush, my little prince. No pain this time.”

The moist tip slips past, silky foreskin teasing across Paris’ anxious hole, and soon the heavy shaft rests hot and slick between the younger prince’s buttocks. Shivering in fevered want—though for the supernal warrior emblazoned by clinging sunlight—Paris releases a throaty moan, echoed by Aeneas, and arches himself into the too-sweet weight of another lusty, sweaty, wanting body. Oh, and to have it be the heir of Troy, finally allowing respite for their attraction…

Same flesh intertwined, arteries plump with mutual blood, one breath passed between…

The earthy, dark scent of arousal rises wetly about them and Paris finds himself choking on it, breathing it in with every stuttering breath and lushly expiring as the aroma coats his throat and lungs before leaving in soft pants. Then large hands grasp his slender hips and the hard body of Aeneas crushes him fervently against the column. Complimentary insults lacerate his ears in lewd waves as the leader of the Dardanians begins to move. A soft plea slips treacherously past the youth’s lips and so he bites till blood one fist to stymie further humiliations; yet the slick glide of the man’s hard cock has him rocking with every delicious motion.

“Oh yes…” Aeneas growls, rutting languorously and then with increasing need against the young prince; and Paris bends back, free hand scrabbling for some handhold upon the smooth pillar as his hips take up the rhythmic motion and his own cock pulses with such poignant ecstasy. His mind and heart wail against this indecency ill-begotten, but goddess-fire aches for release without care of whom he finds it with. He is terrible need, catastrophic want.

With all his might he wills Hector to glance this way, to see them locked together in this mockery of a union. Paris wants his elder brother to witness what he so cruelly rejected last night amid the wreaths of steam from the baths… the slick flesh, the desire. Will the proud general be made supplicant to the raging conflagration between them? Will he finally fall to his knees and commit all the shadowed acts Paris has pleaded for in broken words and writhing body? See what manner of creature your little brother is, see who would take command with such a hard hand, and regret, Paris sends as he arches into the rough movement of Aeneas’ large member.

Moaning for Hector behind his fist, the youth rides the frantic thrusts against his backside and deliriously anticipates the final surge of passion through his throbbing organ. All the world slides into the wet friction of sweaty flesh and moist imprecations battering his ears; it becomes long fingers pressing dark bruises into his hips and a hot shaft taunting him with the most glorious of defeats. Caught in burning threads of pleasure, Paris yearns for a raw, bleeding consummation of crude flesh. He must be invaded, despoiled and deliciously desecrated in an orgy of wet decadence.

And it is at the moment that completion curls tightly within his balls; that it sucks sensation from the surface of his skin to concentrate it along the rigid length of his sex; that is sends scalding spurts of hot seed against the wool of his khiton; that it draws an answering outpouring from the Dardanian; it is at that moment that some wight pricks noble Hector’s attention in their direction.

Eyes the brown of fresh-turned earth widen in shock, nostrils flare as if to pick up a scent, and a line of breaking tension jerks all muscles taught. Held securely by spent passion and Aeneas’ strong arms, Paris watches dazedly as his brother orders his men away, one dark glare extirpating all questions poised upon curious tongues, and stalks towards them with frightening intent. Aeneas chuckles softly against his hair and boldly sprinkles light touches across his torso. Paris squirms in rising agitation, anger burning away the feathered edges of sultry satiation. This is not the first time the cursed Dardanian has accosted him in similar manner—though nothing more passed than deep-thrusting kisses and large hands slipping between his thighs to pinch and stroke, leaving him furious and trembling. Prince Aeneas is far too arrogant to warrant anything but Paris’ seething animosity.

Oh, and divine Hector appears close to bringing the walls of the palace down upon their heads. The wrath of the gods themselves boils in his tumultuous wake and the very ground seems to flinch with each precisely placed footstep. Paralyzed by a thrill of sweetly piercing anticipation, Paris awaits within the cage of Aeneas’ embrace with shortened breaths.

“Our brave general comes to defend your delicate honor, princeling. Do you think he will harm me or you? Perhaps you have finally won this little game you two play. Will he forsake propriety’s end and claim you as a pack leader does his bitch?” Aeneas breathes against the youth’s damp curls, and the younger prince knows that the man’s mouth is curled in a mocking smirk, gray-blue eyes bathing all he sees in wicked humor.

“Hail, my lord prince. How fares war-play?” the haughty warrior calls to the furious heir. “You had no need to call rest on our account.”

“You push our hospitality, Prince Aeneas. Our sister’s love does not countenance this lewd spectacle.” The growling, rolling voice of Hector puts the most delectable flutters in Paris’ belly. The Dardanian notices the shiver that moves through the young prince’s slender body and rewards him with a sharp pinch to his left nipple. Hector’s eyes pluck darker storm clouds from the heavens when Paris whimpers under the abuse.

“Your brother has merely been showing me the extent of your hospitality, noble Hector. Surely this cannot be called lewd, but, rather, most kind generosity.”

“Release him.”

“As my lord commands.”

The strong arms pressing him close against Aeneas slide off with honeyed slowness. Now manumitted, Paris makes no attempt to step away. All the focus of his attention dwells with the intimidating form of his elder brother and, not for the first time, slimy fear worms down his spine. Spite and cruelty curl sinuous tendrils about Hector’s powerful shoulders and unreason sits in quivering anticipation at the general’s ear.

“Brother?”

Paris’ soft query snaps the general’s attention from the Dardanian, and the youth finds himself at the center of his brother’s peaking rage. A hand far stronger and far harder than Aeneas’ grasps his wrist and jerks him to the general’s side.

“From this time hence, if I catch you casting even the most cursory of glances upon Paris, I shall break our alliance and all your limbs,” Hector says with chilling certitude.

“Let it not come to that,” Aeneas replies softly, insouciantly.

Hector does not permit Paris to edge into further conversation before he drags the youth, stumbling and unsteady, from the practice court by his aching wrist. Past startled and staring servants, through hallways that not seen Apollo’s sight since the palace was first constructed, around tight corners, Hector moves with furious purpose and his younger brother has no recourse but to follow even as he trips and falters, his seed and Aeneas’ clammy and unpleasant upon his skin. The violence mantling Hector silences all tremulous queries upon Paris’ tongue. Huddling inside himself, he begins to recognize the passageways from many nights fraught with restless need and the need to be closer; these passageways lead to Hector’s private apartment of rooms.

Hector shoulders the door to his own suite open roughly and pulls Paris in after him. They move from private audience chamber to the heir’s bedchamber. A bubble of smug satisfaction bursts in the youth’s throat as he is given but a moment to look around before Hector shoves him towards the large bed upon a raised dais. Carefully the young prince settles upon the soft furs covering it and grimaces at the sensation of the tacky mess of the Dardanian’s essence upon his backside. Small shivers of apprehension and excitement rattle his stomach as his older brother stalks through the spacious room. The general is caught in the throes of his own fury, one that will swallow the world bleeding and raw, and Paris fears this sudden transition from the gentle warrior to… retribution incarnate.

This is not the intensity the young prince desires. This is far beyond his secret fantasies and childish pranks for attention. Hector is not consumed by war-fever; madness has him… and Paris is alone in his power.

“Shameless!” Hector roars, slamming his palm against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. The youth jumps at the outburst of voice and violence and trains his gaze at his twisting hands in his lap.

“Brother—”

“You will say nothing, shepherd-child. Your words are poison and lies. You will hear me out and you will keep your tongue still,” the general-prince growls as he continues to face the wall, as if the sight of Paris is offensive to his senses.

“You have no sense of decorum. How could you bring such shame by copulating with that Dardanian in such a public forum? There are limits even the king will not forgive trespass. You would make a mockery of our House with your licentious audacity. Shameless! I will not allow you to continue willfully as you have been, Paris. If you will not follow the reasonable dictates of common sense, then I will tutor you in it with the whip.”

“I did not ask prince Aeneas to—!”

Hector is upon him before he can complete his rebuttal. Eyes filled with divine flames, cheeks burnished by monolithic rage, the imperial prince bears the younger boy back upon the fur coverlet by the neck, knees between the youth’s splayed thighs, the scent of metal-sweat-dust thick in the air. Paris cries out and bats ineffectually at his violent sibling even as he wriggles desperately for liberty. He stills, heart beating like that of a hunted hind, as his eldest brother roughly grasps his limp penis with his free hand. The masterful fingers about his throat clench and the dark eyes boring into his own fill with frightening shadows. The evidence of his pleasure at Aeneas’ hands remains and now Hector knows with certainty that he was not as averse as he would claim—but it was his traitorous, weak body that succumbed!

“With your slender body you ask every male to come and rudely thrust himself between your thighs. Your walk invites desecration. The heat in your eyes begs for a cock to put you in your place. You do not even need to open your mouth. Is this not true, little brother?” Hector’s face moves closer with each cruel accusation; he breathes the final thrust across Paris’ trembling lips in the softest, most lacerating puff of warm air.

“Only for you. All for you, always.” Hector’s eyes bleed into a deathly blankness and slowly he moves away. Paris waits with twitching patience.

A near scream pulls wetly from his throat as the hand about his tender parts twists vengefully. Scalding tears of agony pause at the corners of Paris’ eyes before slipping down to dampen the hair at his temples. With the strength of a babe he tries to curl into himself and away from the burning pain of his genitals. Hector releases him and moves back, his large body shuddering with a bacchanalia of passions.

“Not for me, Paris. That is not how it is supposed to be. We are brothers. Brothers.”

“Then—then I should take my suit to the Dardanian. I would be better received, as you have seen.” Defeat does not flavor Paris softly uttered words. Only a granite strength and determination, shaded in challenge and defiance, crack through the deceptively mild sentences.

“No!” Strong fingers dig into Paris shoulders and force him to uncurl. A shattering desperation and disgust litter the general’s dark eyes as his anger splinters upon the shoals of his younger brother’s implacability. “No,” he repeats in an almost inaudible breath.

Then a kiss of potent fire takes Paris’ lips and pours living passion into his yielding mouth as Hector breaks free of his impotency of action and hurls the siblings into a maelstrom of concupiscence. Rough hands maul the younger prince and rend the fine covering from his slender body. Teeth leave coronas of suffering across his shoulders and chest. Every harsh breath of the general is companioned by heated imprecations and accusations that slide into Paris’ ears with melting simplicity. Though his body is in no state to express lust, Paris gladly falls under his brother’s torture. To Hector he gives his pain in shocked cries and his willingness for this sumptuous abuse in every undulation of his body and the wild progress of his hands.

And Hector takes, takes rapaciously and brutally as is his inalienable prerogative, takes with hatred and power, takes in love twisted beyond repair, takes with the vigor and callousness of war—Paris, the treasured prize.

When he forces Paris onto hands and knees, blood-warm tears have replaced the cries of supplication. The heir evidences no distress upon finding his brother’s penis flaccid and uninterested, nor do the flinches of pain upon the handling of it deter his impetus. Face shrouded in the wild tangle of his ruined coif, Paris weeps and waits with an eagerness that flirts with madness. Unprepared, apocalyptic, gilded in sweat and a lingering misery, the young prince clutches the disturbed fur coverlet and sets sharp teeth into the meat of his own arm. Every breath is a humid revelation and every passing moment one more stab of time lost.

Then the thrust, the screaming, deep, raw penetration and his body collapses upon itself. Metallic wine slips past his teeth and coats his tongue. Only the strong hands squeezing distinct bruises into hips prevent him from melting into the star-shards of agony filling his body. So beautiful! This is… this is fulfillment…

This

Is

Love

“Please, brother, please,” he whispers into the wound upon his forearm, sealing the words in a promise of his body open and unquestioning.

“I will not… let you go… Paris. Not to him.”

A sweet little smile curves the youth’s bloodied mouth as his older brother owns him with every harsh thrust. Strong thighs force his thighs to greater openness as Hector pumps in and out with grating pants, and Paris’ love-crafted body opens reluctantly for the hard length. Whispering strange vows and begging desperately for more, Paris rocks back onto the cock tearing into him and likes it—wants/needs/loves it—for it comes from the one he adores with poisoned ardor. Only from this divinely crafted man will he accept such crude—necessary—treatment. No other has that privilege!

“He never took me. He never took me,” he screams as the seed of his eldest brother spills into him with a celerity denoting the months of needful denial. Ineluctability has seeped inside them for too long it seems. Harvested of pleasure and fulfillment, they sink into a limp, sweat-glow sprawl across the bed.

Fresh tears slip past the fan of his lashes as the younger prince rubs his sticky cheek across the bleeding teeth-mark upon his arm. Hector is a dead weight crushing him into the ruined coverlet. The air is thick and sultry with scent of the siblings’ indiscretion, and Paris breaths this olfactory evidence of their encounter gratefully. Though his body achieved no pleasure—and a great deal of nearly debilitating agony—from this fleshy congress, satisfaction burns warmly in the core of his stomach.

Face pressed deeply into the tacky furs, individual hairs gluing to the salt-dampness of his cheek, eyes open with a sort of languid alertness, Paris meets Aeneas’ gaze as the man leans against the doorjamb to Hector’s bedchamber. Chatoyant gray eyes regard him with indulgent mockery and full lips curve with a condescension that speaks audaciously of Hector’s transitory victory.

“All in its own time, my little princeling,” the Dardanian whispers and the words seem to take shape and hang in nebulous veils of humid promise. Paris shivers under the warm and sated weight of his older brother and closes his eyes as the tide of pain sweeps up from his backside to birth its spiteful brood in his mind.

Unconsciousness swallows the young prince and he tumbles away from safety and comfort.

The competition, it seems, is not yet over.


~End~